Page 7 of The Enemy's Daughter

“And thank you,” he says, voice unsteady.

My thoughts jumble as I try to think of something else to say. Was that his first kiss too?

“I’ll get better at it,” he whispers.

“No, it was fine. Perfectly fine.”

He doesn’t speak right away. “I can do better thanfine.”

My head bows. I’m out of ways to convince him he didn’t mess up.

“I should go,” Liam says, voice quiet, almost regretful. “Most of my clansmen have already left, but I wanted to find you first.”

As he turns to leave, I grip his arm. “Wait.” If word gets out that Liam is responsible for Farron’s death, the Kingsland will target him. If captured, Liam will be tortured beyond anything even Gerald can imagine, then killed. “Maybe you should stay. I’m sure we have enough men protecting the border should the Kingsland retaliate. Besides, you’re not a fighter, and you hate this as much as—”

“I’m not a coward.”

I drop his arm. “I know that.” Liam may not be a born and bred fighter, but he rightfully won his spot to become leader of Cohdor. It was no easy feat to prove himself an expert in carpentry, and he completed multiple physical feats to show his strength and bravery.

“I couldn’t kill Farron because he wouldn’t fight back. He hit the ground and just lay there as if he was waiting for me to extenda hand to help him to his feet. Like, how was this their ruthless leader? I thought we’d made a mistake.”

“Oh?” The image he paints is disturbing. Why wouldn’t Farron defend himself?

Why? Because he’s a deplorable, gutless man who’s nothing without the barbarians he controls.

“But it won’t happen again,” Liam promises. “You don’t have to worry. I know how to throw a knife and swing an ax, and I know what I have to do, especially now that I have someone to fight for.” He squeezes my hand, then brings it to his mouth for a kiss.

I’m frozen as his words sink in. I don’t know what bothers me more: that he thinks he can take on Farron’s army, the most ruthless enemy we’ll ever face, and come out unscathed.

Or that, because of me, he’s now willing to do what he’s never done before—kill.

3

“Freia, next you can grind the jackoray and put it in that sack,” Mum says, handing my best friend a clean stone bowl and pestle from our kitchen table.

Freia scratches her cheek, streaking green feversley powder across her dark brown skin. She fixes me with a tired look at getting stuck doing the arduous task of grinding again. “Jacko-yay!”

Mum ignores Freia’s attempt at humor, just like she has all year since Freia joined us to learn how to become a healer. “Isadora, we need more of—”

“Everything. I know,” I say, frustration edging my voice. Despite living as if we’re always on the verge of an attack, we’re not prepared. Supplies have never been more lacking, thanks to the Kingsland’s increased raids on our traders, and I don’t know what to do. Today could bring an unprecedented number of wounded, and we wouldn’t be able to help them all.

Mum exhales. “Yes.”

I point to my stack of yarkow and whimlore. “I’ve prioritized the herbs for bleeding and pain relief. But we’re short on poppy extractunless the traders make a surprise visit. We’re probably good for widowspore and venite for infection, but as for bandages—” I hold up a large roll of the handwoven material we make and use to wrap wounds—“We have thirty-eight.” That’s less than one bandage per soldier out on the perimeter right now. “If we want more, all we can do is cut up some clothes. Boiled horsehair for stitches is running low too.”

There’s a knock on our front door, and all three of us flinch. I let out a nervous laugh. “As if the Kingsland would knock.”

Mum hastily wipes her hands on the bottom of her button-down shirt. “Don’t underestimate their sorcery. If they can communicate without words and inflict pain without a weapon, who knows what else they can do?”

I resist a deep sigh. The Kingsland doesn’t have magic. Nobody does. I know she was only a small child when the world still had electricity and hospitals and doctors, but if she’d let me read to her about what she’s forgotten, she’d know how ridiculous these superstitions sound.

“Elise,” she says, surprised as she opens the door.

I lean back from my position in the kitchen but can’t see the young mother who lives a few houses over.

Elise clears her throat before speaking. “I know this is privileged information, but”—her voice breaks—“I was hoping you might have news about our husbands guarding the line.”

Mum throws me a stern look, a reminder to keep working, then slips outside. Thankfully the window is open.

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